


Make The Man

by inlovewithnight



Category: Homicide: Life on the Street
Genre: Ensemble - Freeform, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 03:31:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Pembleton's guide to style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make The Man

"Look at this." Tim grins over the edge of his coffee mug and shakes his head at the TV screen, where the President is engaged in digging himself a hole deep enough to drown in. "Leader of the free world and he still puts his pants on one leg at a time like the rest of us."

"That's an asinine expression," Frank's voice cuts across the room.

"What do you have against it, Frank?" Tim asks, rising to the bait and rising up out of his chair to refill his coffee. "Just saying that we're all the same when it comes to the basics. Confirming the...the essential equality of all mankind."

"What about womankind?" Beau grins across his desk at Kay. "How's she putting on her skirt?"

"I know what it _means_, Bayliss," Frank says, ignoring Beau and staring stonily across the room at Tim. "Not being a halfwit or a child, but a reasonably well-educated and competent adult, I know what it _means_. That _meaning_, however, is asinine."

"And he's asking why you feel that way, Frank." Meldrick shoots a wadded-up paper over Crosetti's head and into the trash. "Give us your reasoning, bring us poor bastards some enlightenment, you know you want to."

"It's the high point of his day," Beau says.

"Felton, shut up and listen. You could learn something from this." Frank's gaze doesn't waver from Tim, who stands at the coffee pot, suddenly uncomfortable, visibly realizing that his idle remark has become a tactical error. "It's asinine, Bayliss, because it is fundamentally _wrong_, if not at face value then once you put any thought into it whatsoever. All mankind may be equal...no, actually, that's a load of crap too and you know it. But even granting you the assumption that they are, for the good old sake of argument, even if they _are_, the pants are not."

"The pants?" Tim repeats blankly, echoed by Meldrick.

"The _pants_? Hell, Frank, I never knew you had fashion as a hobby. That a New York police thing?"

"The clothes make the man," Frank says, pushing his chair back from his desk. "That's another common saying, Bayliss, if you want to add it to your list. That one's true, though. What you wear has a hand in who you are."

"Who you _say_ you are." Kay glances up from her paperwork. "The face you show the world. That's not necessarily _you_, Frank."

"You tell a lie long enough, it becomes your truth, Kay. Sinks down into your head until you start to believe it. We all know that. Our esteemed clientele, our beloved patrons, are living breathing overdosing murdering proof of that." He stands up, unfolding from his chair and taking off his jacket in one smooth motion. "The face you put on every morning is the face you see in the mirror."

"Frank Pembleton, ancient Greek philosopher." Beau reaches up and snatches Meldrick's pass out of midair then lobs it back at him. "Wait till he gets started on the deeper meanings of hairdos."

"Felton, I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut." Frank hangs his jacket over the back of his chair and turns in a slow circle, hands held out from his body. "Observe. The clothes make the man. The clothes make the _self_. What you wear says who you are."

"You're wearing a white shirt and brown pants," Meldrick says, rolling the football between his hands. "So what does that say?"

"Fine. Start with the shirt." Frank gestures down the length of his torso. "White. Clean and pressed. Starch, you bet your ass. This thing can stand up on its own."

"Who does the ironing, you or Mary?" Tim asks.

Meldrick laughs and shoots the football at Tim's head. "I bet the great Frank doesn't let no woman's hand touch his special shirts."

"You think _he_ spends an hour at the ironing board?" Crosetti asks.

"Whoever's turn it is to do the laundry does the ironing." Frank walks over to Beau's desk and leans in close, finding a series of stains on Beau's shirt with his forefinger and pressing deliberately at each. "Shirt gets stained or sweaty or dingy past where bleach can get it out, it gets retired. Cut up for rags." He looks Beau dead in the eye. "It's an investment, but it's all about _attitude_. Keeping yourself primed. Not letting things slip, letting things slack. Attitude."

"I got kids to feed," Beau says, batting Frank's hand away. "We can't all drop a couple hundred down at Nordstrom every month above and beyond the clothing allowance, Frank."

"After the shirt." Frank turns on his heel and crosses back to the center of the room. "I believe our observant colleague Mr. Lewis mentioned pants. Trousers, as the English would say."

"Pantalones in Spanish," Tim adds.

"Bayliss, you are screwing up my rhythm." Frank shakes his head and puts one foot up on the edge of the desk. "A good suit is a thing of beauty and a joy forever. Take care of it. Buy quality, get it cleaned, get it pressed. Creases that could cut paper, that's the goal. You'll get your investment back in confidence, in yourself and from other people. Confidence that you know what the hell you're doing. That maybe they should give some information to that nice policeman from the homicide unit."

"Oh, yeah," Meldrick says, nodding. "Good suit, that'll get you _miles_ down on the corners. You're out of touch, Frank."

"And for God's sake get something that fits," Frank barrels on. "Tailors are a dime a dozen in this town. We bury what, three or four a year?"

"Are you done, Pembleton?" Gee asks, leaning out of his office door frame with a sharp, only quasi-benevolent smile. "Might the sweet sound of work being done and cases being closed once more fill my squad room?"

"Almost, Gee." Frank straightens his tie. "Finishing touches. The tie, one hundred percent silk, neutral color or pattern, Windsor knot. I learned to tie one when I was nine, Felton, there's no excuse for the clip-ons."

"Why am _I_ the target all of a sudden?" Beau asks, waving a pen at Frank. "What the hell did I do?"

"What's your point, Frank?" Tim asks. "Give us the summary version."

"The grand finale," Meldrick says. "The ninth goddamn inning."

"It's about pride, people," Frank says, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging, looking across the room at the board. "Pride in your appearance, in yourself, in your job. Your calling. We're not street sweepers, we're detectives. Look like that means something to you, is my _point_. You come in here looking like you lost a bet, how is anybody supposed to take you seriously? How are you going to take yourself seriously? Look like you come in here for a _reason_."

"It's sure not for the coffee." Tim sets his mug on the counter and sighs. "You should've been a priest, Frank."

"You could've taken pride in putting on your collar and gown every morning," Beau says.

"It's called a cassock, Felton, read a book once in a while." Frank sighs and drops back into his chair, reaching for a file. "I talk and talk but nobody listens. Should talk to the bodies, it's less of a waste of breath than talking to you people."

"Frank," Kay says, glancing up from her desk. "What about my clothes? Don't they _say_ anything to you even though they're not an Armani suit or something?"

"Not touching that one, Howard."

"Why not?"

"I've been married long enough to know better than to comment on a woman's clothes."

"One more thing you forgot to mention, Frank," Meldrick says, leaning over into the walkway as Crosetti picks up the phone. "Why are you always wearing suspenders _and_ a belt? What's the big secret meaning there?"

"Oldest one in the world, Lewis." Frank makes a note in his file, then another, visibly counting off the seconds before Meldrick gives in.

"And what's that?"

"My wife likes me in these." Frank grins over his file while the others hoot with laughter. "Keep the missus happy, everyone's happy. That's another saying to hold on to, Bayliss. Write that one down."


End file.
